


The Murder Hut

by melissfiction



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Acrophobia, Featuring Rick Sanchez, Jealous Ford, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery Trio, Suicide Attempt Mention, The murder hut, implied fiddlestan, takes places in 1982
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25442218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissfiction/pseuds/melissfiction
Summary: Yet another one of Stanley's exes shows up at the Murder Hut, but Stanford forces himself to tolerate this Rick Sanchez bastard because he just wanted to see Stanley smile. (Mystery Trio feat. Rick Sanchez)
Relationships: Stan Pines/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	The Murder Hut

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2016 and never published it. That's crazy. I love the writing in this story honestly. I'm trying to publish a lot of my old works rn. Also, Stanley and Rick are both fluent in Spanish in this story. And apparently I wrote this fanfiction while listening to Danse Macabre.

There was a lot Stanford Pines tolerated, so much that he felt he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize for _not_ attempting murder, yet. He never asked his brother about the years he spent homeless. Instead, he gave him a home and politely requested that any smoking be done outdoors. (Stanford was never one for slang, but he did call them cancersticks. He couldn’t stand how much Stanley needed them. Some nights, the mesmerizing sight of white puffing out in slow curls was the only thing preventing him from reaching for a gun instead.) He didn’t say a word when Fiddleford came knocking at his door at some godforsaken hour of the night after his wife took their son and finally ended the failing marriage. He let Fiddleford sleep in for as long as he wanted for as many weeks as he wanted even when complaints of headaches and bottles of Prozac popped up. (They used to stay up for days in college, so Stanford underestimated the effects of oversleeping. Oversleeping was linked to back pain, heart disease, and, in worst cases, death. Of course, there were other underlying factors surrounding the statistics of the last one, but it didn’t help that he spent more time in bed than out.)

It was better, nowadays. Stanford reluctantly agreed to let his brother make a business out of scaring tourists with their discarded inventions. He hated romanticizing it, but it was like Stanley was speaking another language when he crafted his lies. From the inflection of his voice to the deliberate gestures to the twinkle in his eyes, it was clear that he was an unconventional genius. Swank was an art in Stanley’s hands. It was the art of rhetoric. In any case, it got food on the table when the grant money ran dry and raised Stan’s self-esteem from the negatives to somewhere near a solid zero. Not quite there, but close enough to round up to it, like a limit. It was a start. 

Then, Fiddleford started coming down to the lab more often. He talked about his Doctorate in Psychology and how he needed to put it to good use, but never once delved into how he planned on using it. He dove into his own era of creation. Whatever there was to make, he found a way to make it: robots, AIs, symphonies, statues, heck, even laptops. He was close to joining forces with Stan and rebooting “Fiddleford’s Computermajigs.” His only lament was that he couldn’t formulate a serum he could inject into his bloodstream to make him happy, even for a second. (Stanley begged to differ. The Fords may be the men of science, but Stan knew a thing or two about dangerous chemicals, too. What Fiddleford was looking for was good ol’ heroin.)

Things seemed to be looking up until the one thing Stanford Pines could not tolerate happened: Rick Sanchez. 

In all honesty, Stanford wasn’t too sure what was happening upstairs while he was contemplating the enigma of what was under a gnome’s hat. It was easier to immerse himself in tangible solutions. He wasn’t the guy you went to when you needed to sob your problems into a shoulder. That was Stan. That was Fiddleford. That was, if you were the right person, Rick. Ford specialized in giving people space and moving on with his own life; there was no reason to change his habits, so he didn’t. Besides, the dusty store upstairs started out like any other cheap business. Emphasis on “started out.” 

Stanford swore he was colorblind because he had no clue how he didn’t see the red flags earlier. Stan wasn’t going by his own name in public. He had a persona called “Mr. Mystery,” though he occasionally claimed to be Sam Hines or Steve Pineington or simply threw on his glasses and a trenchcoat and used his best Stanford Pines impression. It was to make sure his old flames never found him, so Ford shrugged it off. Then, Stan’s literal old flame Jimmy Snakes stopped by on his revving motorcycle, probably possessed by at least a Category 5 Ghost. The worst part about that experience was Stan’s endless puns about his flaming ex. No joke, Jimmy was literally on fire. Then, Rico and Jorge stayed for dinner. Then, Rico and Jorge became dinner. (Okay, Ford didn’t know for sure if that was the case. They only spoke Spanish and were mostly polite, from what Ford could understand, but it’s a _little_ suspicious that they only had Spanish cuisine with strange-tasting meat for weeks after they “left.”) And then, a spaceship took Ford’s usual parking spot outside the house while he went out for dinner at Greasy’s Diner.

The store had a quirky juxtaposition of a mundane pawn shop’s layout and peculiar products. A lot came from Fiddleford. Fiddleford donated everything he hated to Stan’s business. Of course, he hated everything he made. Some were stuffed carcasses mutated to create fantasy creatures, which explained Stan’s recent interest in taxidermy. The list goes on and on: spare parts, unwanted clothes, failed projects, etc. Everything came with a free story made up on the spot, tales designed to sell his merchandise. Stan was entertaining a customer when Ford decided to check up on him. 

“Good evening, wandering soul,” he greeted. He led his curious customer down an aisle filled with shelves of wonders. There were quills that never ran out of ink, calculators powered by moonlight, toasters that automatically buttered toast. “You look like one in need of something of a particular purpose, something you can find nowhere else but here.” His tone was ominous, as if he was introducing a ghost story about an ancient curse the shop was ridden with after a bad run-in with a grumpy sorceress. 

Quite the character, the customer was. It wasn’t everyday when Stanford saw a man sipping on his flask, wearing a crop top and ripped jeans under a labcoat. (He wasn’t judging, but…) His eyes flickered around the establishment with anticipation. He was expecting something, anything to suddenly animate and wring the life out of his neck. He grew bored as soon as he figured out that everything that wasn’t breathing was still. His gaze lingered on the violin while he passed it, but not long enough to pull him into an impulsive purchase. 

“Yup, you—you’ve guessed it. I’m at my wit’s end trying to find a 55P Daroxlon battery, a-and you’re the, you’re the guy to go to. You’re the cherry on top, the buckle to my belt, the secret chord behind the latest trashy hit song on the charts of Necessity and Desperation. This is a—” He belched. “This is a nice place you’re running, you know. A real classic throwback to hipsters finding the least-known hangout to jerk off in. Should I leave a tip? Are tips a thing here?” 

“ _Conmigo, siempre! Esta tienda acepta moneda todos, pesos y dólares de americano._ ” 

The customer rolled his eyes. “ _Oi, hablo_ _inglés, pendejo._ ” 

“ _Lo siento, prefiero español cuando mi hermano_ _está viendo…_ ” 

Stan waved at his brother on the other side of the store. Ford had a feeling he was supposed to come back later. Spanish was the one of the few subjects Stan had over Ford, mostly because he took Latin, but he recognized that phrase. It was their unspoken signal for Ford to mind his own business. Curiosity killed their treaty. Stanford stuck around for a while longer because he wanted to hear the tale his brother would spin about whatever hunk of metal he tried to pass for a 55P Daroxlon battery. 

“ _No quiero disturbios._ J-Just sell me the damn quantum defraculator.” 

“I thought you wanted a battery.” 

Stanford didn’t have any knowledge of ever possessing either. He wasn’t a man of _that_ kind of science, the kind with sci-fi gadgets and green slime and aliens, but he also wasn’t sure what he would call himself in public, either. A biologist of the unnatural? A researcher of anomalies? Just a scientist? Either way, he would be of more help than Stan. He cleared his throat, the awkward man’s way of greeting. “Can I help you?” 

The man held out his hand. “No. Or, as your brother pictures me saying in that stereotyped mind of his, categorized A-Z with cliches…” He repeated himself, but in a Spanish accent. “... _No.”_

Stan grabbed something random that was neither a battery nor a quantum defraculator. “Yeesh, tooouu- _chy!_ ” He sauntered to his favorite place in the world, behind the cash register. Apparently, he was selling a screwdriver, now. “I reckon a bottle of Tabasco sauce like you wants to haggle.” 

“S-See, we both know what I’m looking for isn’t even worth half the lowest unit of money in any currency…” He leaned over the counter. “You’ve got a... you’ve got a name? What should I be screaming out if you happen to give me what I want?” 

“‘More,’” Stanley answered smoothly. 

Within seconds, they were passionately making out like it was their last meal before execution. The stranger’s hands were quick to feel up Stan, remapping pre-discovered territories, eager to spark what was left to sizzle in the rain. Ford could tell they knew each other from the way they touched. It was sick to watch, but he was a deer caught in the headlights. It wasn’t long before Stan’s apparent lover hopped up onto the counter and starting grinding into Stan while Stan nipped and licked at his neck. _Gross, Stanley,_ Ford thought. He couldn’t believe the whole exchange about needing a battery was some kind of kinky roleplay leading up to sex.

“S-Sh-Shit, yes!” the man choked out. He threw his head back with a deep, guttural groan as Stan rubbed their hips closer together. “More! _More!_ ” 

And he knew that Ford was still present. He glanced over his shoulder, smirked, and flipped him off while Stan continued catering to his needs. Stan couldn’t have known that his own twin brother was still in the room, not from the way he was feasting on his customer’s body, not from the way his eyes glazed over in pure, twenty-four carat desire, not from the way he moaned. Believe it or not, but _this_ was also within Ford’s realm of toleration. He silently flipped the store’s sign from Yes, We’re Open to Sorry, We’re Closed, dialed the muscle-memory sequence on the vending machine, and disappeared into his laboratory. There was a lot he did for his brother; that was to say, there was a lot he _didn’t_ do. He needed mouthwash for his eyes. 

* * *

Stan made breakfast the next morning, meaning, Stancakes and coffee. The sun was unusually bright, which probably had something to do with Fiddleford sudden insistence on keeping every window in the house wide open. It was only coincidence that everyone’s moods appeared lifted, like the placebo effect or the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. It had nothing to do with the miracle of Stanford crawling out of the basement after last night. But, again, that was Fiddleford’s doing. After creating a long list of every symptom Stanley had for any mental disorder on his yellow notepad, he decided to take an active role in the house of spiraling depression and play therapist. He jotted down notes about Stan and Rick’s relationship while he ate. 

Rick ate breakfast like any other member of an average household. As far as he was concerned, he was in another man’s house, eating his food, and mooching off his resources. Stan’s angry look-alike didn’t exactly give him the warmest welcome, but that was a given, considering what little he knew about Stan’s twin. Rick didn’t care to learn any more about him than he already knew. “Babe, get me some water, will you?” 

Stanley obediently got up and fetched an ice cold glass of water. Stanford shot a glare towards Fiddleford. Fiddleford didn’t bother looking up from his notes.

As soon as Rick finished his meal, he dropped his utensils onto the plate with a clang. “I-I’ve, I’ve gotta h-hand it to you, Stanley. You make the _best_ goddamned flapjacks in the multiverse. If that Harvard guy were still around, he’d appreciate you an awful lot,” he said with utmost sincerity.

“The guy’s right next to you,” Stan pointed out. 

Rick corrected himself. “If that Harvard guy weren’t such an idiot, he’d appreciate you an awful lot.” 

Ford took in a deep breath, then let it out. “Stanley, I want an explanation.” 

“He’s calling you an idiot,” Stanley explained. 

Ford remained patient. Calm. Serene as a trickling waterfall in a lotus garden. “Yes, I understand that much. Who is he, again?” 

Rick cleared his throat with a great deal of exaggeration. “E-Excuse me, but I make my own introductions. Good morning, how are you, I don’t care... The name’s Rick Sanchez. Stanley’s being a sweetheart because I won’t be here long. Gravity Falls is a nice place to visit, but a terrible place to live. I realize that sounds like the title of a Twilight Zone episode, and it probably is, but I assure you that I don’t mean any harm. I’ve got no vendettas, no funny business, no shady proposals itching at the back of my mind.”

Stan smiled at his brother imploringly, like Ford was the best person in the world but still only second to Rick. It was the same front he used for Jimmy Snakes. There had to be a limit on this madness, but like a frog in a kettle gradually heating up, Ford chose to cope with it a while longer. At least this one wasn’t possessed. (Chances were higher that he was a shapeshifting alien.) “What’s the reason for your visit?” 

Rick glanced at Stan, who was also curious. He reluctantly brought his attention back to Ford. “I-I don’t know if you’re aware, but Gravity Falls has the highest concentration of anomalies on the entire globe.” 

Stanford sat up straighter in his chair. He was aware, all right, and curious to see where this was going. He didn’t think anybody else in the world was as interested in Gravity Falls as he was. 

“It’s weird enough here to let me fly under the radar despite the huge clash of brainwaves going on in this particular household. L-Let’s say you got three tones on the same pitch, like a C concert or something, but all are out of tune. Me, you, and the guy taking notes have distinct clashing brain frequencies that would usually have the feds on my tail. Here, the four of us can live in peace as long as we’re not eaten by a were-jackahorsetoad.” 

Fiddleford mumbled a kid-friendly curse when his pencil lead broke. There was a pen on the table, but that would mean ruining the uniformity of writing in his notes. He was the kind of guy that wrote in small, straight, evenly-spaced print and had his indents precise to the millimeter, a stark contrast to Stanford’s rushed chaotic cursive with t’s uncrossed and i’s undotted. He cannot simply switch from pencil to pen. The options he had were re-writing everything in pen, finding a new pencil, or finding the pencil sharpener. He set his useless pencil down and chose to add to his notes when he did either of the latter two options later. 

Nevertheless, his current collection of data from Stan’s interaction with Rick could already draw numerous conclusions. Fiddleford took this opportunity to observe Stanley’s reaction to Rick’s explanation. Always the one to roll with the punches, Stan was laidback about the implication that the authorities chasing after Rick cared about brainwaves. The concept of brainwaves itself seemed to be a familiar topic to Stan. 

“That makes me the human cloaking device, huh?” Stan assumed. He knocked the side of his skull, as if he expected a hollow sound. “My dumb brain must neutralize you geniuses. Only reason why you would ever stick around me.” 

“A-A-Actually, y-you’re the worst,” Rick stated. “The, the worst of us all. Y-You have no pitch of your own, but you can synchronize so well it creates overtones. Meaning, you’re an amp.” 

Stan backtracked. “Woah, woah, I get the brainwaves and the fact that I’m the worst, but now I’m lost. I’ve got no clue what an overtone even is.” 

“S-Shit, babe. Usually I’d just simplify the whole idea to some dumb metaphor that misrepresents everything, but th-this is, th-th-this is so fascinating that you’ve _gotta_ know, babe. I’m on the verge of orgasm just thinking about, a-about how huge this dildo of an idea is. Ever do that, babe? Ever stay up at night sweating over big, fat ideas that fuck you up the ass like, like some kind of thirsty, Id-driven, aphrodisiac-drinking philosopher?”

“Literally only nerds do that.” Stan patted Ford’s back affectionately. He recalled plenty of nights when Ford did exactly that. His brother’s idea of a light bedtime story was a five-pound hardcover physics textbook. It sure did the job in knocking Stan out like a light. 

Stanford didn’t appreciate the look he earned from Rick. It wasn’t mean enough to call a glare or nice enough to brush off as a glance. They weren’t on good terms despite having just met, to say the least. Rick was wary of Ford and Ford didn’t blame him. Both twins acknowledged that they talked mad shit about the other while they were apart. They said less, now, but that had more to do with the fact that they talked with less people in general. Well, Stan talked with plenty, but not as himself. 

Rick drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I-I suppose that’s fine. I-If it’s you and me, Stanley, I can do all the thinking,” he promised. “It’s not a, not a good thing to be thinking so much. Like, you got bad thoughts? W-Well, not much you can do except not think about them. I’ll warn you what not to think when I think it. Heads up: reject any thought that feels spidery.” 

* * *

Fiddleford has been pulling strings to get a hold of Stanley’s medical records, under Stanford’s name. He was certain Stanford wouldn’t mind, like how Fiddleford didn’t mind risking his life every day researching strange creatures and building an interdimensional portal for no pay. It was better than using his name to lie his way out of paying debts to vengeful Oklahoma mafia mob bosses. This was for Stanley’s good, after all. His altruism was truly a gift that his housemates should be grateful for and no, he was _not_ being a control freak. No point in having a brain full of smarts when you can’t even help anyone with it. He didn’t get his Doctorate in Psychology for bragging rights, after all. Knowledge was meant to influence. Creations were meaningless without purpose. But none of the Glass Shard, New Jersey hospitals Fiddleford called had any records of a Stanley Pines. 

He needed a break from the jumble of numbers clogging up space on the chalkboards. 

… Yes, chalkboards plural. They had twelve of them scattered around the house. It was agreed that it would come in handy, and it did. 

As he was saying, he needed a break from the jumble of numbers clogging up space on the chalkboards. The chemicals he has been experimenting with were starting to leak into his brain. A man couldn’t breathe cooped up in a dusty science basement of madness. Ford, being Ford, would let him take one, on the condition that it was under the assumption that it pertained to his fragile state of mind ever since the split. Sometimes Fiddleford wondered how he ever became friends with a man who constantly judged under the guise of _I’m-not-judging-but-dot-dot-dot._ Not every negative feeling he had was a result of the divorce. It hurt, still does, but it’s not as if clinical depression wouldn’t have hit him anyway. 

He had to convince Stanford to take a break. Work, work, work—that’s all Ford did, but financially, it wasn’t getting them anywhere. Stan’s shady little upstairs business was the current breadwinner of the house and Ford was too obstinate to admit it. From a broader view, none of what they accomplished matter outside of their minds. The last time they attended an academic conference was, oh right, never. 

“Say, Ford, you think Stan has a thing for smart guys?” he casually brought up. 

He looked through the notes he took during breakfast. Rick clearly hated Ford’s guts. He was never able to blame anyone for hating Ford. Ford was a perfectly hateable son of a gun, ain’t no shame in admitting it. 

“If you're thinking about ‘getting back out there,’ then no.”

“Now, I'm just statin’ an observation,” he assured him. The jab at his divorce was completely unnecessary, that son of a… He scratched the back of his neck. “Has he, uh, told you about him and me?” 

If Stanford was holding a test tube, it would have dropped straight to the ground, burning through the cement with its highly acidic contents. Luckily, he was only holding a graphing calculator. Math just won a point over chemistry. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t do it on my desk. Stanley always jokes about how that’s what you two would do if you ever hooked up.” 

“We didn’t do it on your desk.” They totally did it on his desk. There were still condoms and leftover bottles of lube in his third drawer, too, because that was the drawer he threw crumpled pieces of paper in. He’ll never clean it out. “He gets awfully glum in the winter, you know. He doesn’t like showing it to you ‘cause he doesn’t want to distract you. All he ever talked about was how much he hated himself. Have you ever noticed that he don’t mind none when someone tells him he’s horrible?” 

Stanford cringed. “Bad thoughts…” He rubbed his face. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spent time together. It _does_ feel like he avoids me. He’s all over everyone but me.” 

“I bet you’re not used to that,” Fiddleford sneered. 

“Honestly, I’m _not_. He gets a certain way when someone from his past comes back into his life. They’re like an ocean, keeping him afloat, but as soon as he gets tired of swimming, he starts to drown.” 

“Why don’t you try reconnecting with him?” Fiddleford suggested. He tossed Stanford’s wallet to him. He may or may not have needed Stanford’s ID to help with the string-pulling he attempted. “Go be teenagers again and burn a Jackson at the arcade.” 

Stanford stood up, renewed with the vigor to save his friendship with his brother. “Yeah, Fiddleford, you’re right… We’re still young, anyway, and Stanley loved video games back in Jersey.” 

Fiddleford followed Stanford to the elevator and they made their ascent from the underground to ground floor. 

* * *

Stanley was in the living room, cross-legged on the floor while Rick was attempting to tune Fiddleford’s old violin to the home phone’s dial tone. Stanley initially didn’t believe it was feasible tuning a violin to a single note when multiple strings had to be tuned to different notes. According to Rick, he was using something called “relative pitch,” where every note can be found with just one reference note through relations. Stan hinted that Rick must love relationships a lot, but Rick countered that it was easier than developing perfect pitch. What was perfect pitch? Rick explained that perfect pitch was the ability to identify or re-create any note without a reference. Only people with nothing better to do develop perfect pitch, he claimed. Stan wondered if Fiddleford had perfect pitch. Not once has he seen Fiddleford with a tuner. 

Stanley was astonished to see both of his nerds out of the basement at the same time. That automatically translated to his brother wanting to lecture him about his bad life choices. He had no clue what could have triggered it, unless they wanted to refuse to house a wanted multidimensional criminal, which was strange, considering they were already housing a wanted international criminal. Besides, things have been relatively mundane. They could have been harvesting organs, but instead, they were messing around with the junk in the shop, if you know what he means. 

“Hello, Stanley. I was thinking that, because it has been a long time and all, we could, maybe…” Stanford trailed off as soon as Rick slammed the phone back into its receiver. 

“We were just on our way to get ice cream, actually,” Rick informed him. He was done tuning. He played a few notes up the C scale. 

Fiddleford made a face at the third. It was so out of tune it sounded like a C minor scale. “Your E is extremely flat.” 

“M-Maybe it’s an E-flat,” Rick suggested. He let his bow rub slowly against a D while he plucked it. “Now that’s an E-double-flat. Y-You think the universe revolves around what’s _natural?_ There’s accidents all over the place, and you’re one of them.” 

Fiddleford accepted the criticism with a shrug. There wasn’t much to argue about, considering everything Rick said was technically true. He has seen D-naturals written as E-double-flats in sheet music. “Scordatura tuning?” 

“Gubba nub nub doo rah kah,” Rick mumbled dismissively. He set the violin on the ground. “C’mon, babe, ice cream’s on me! I’ll even try that toffee peanut flavor you’re crazy about.” 

Stanford didn’t protest, but he had a look on his face that reminded Stan of the moment when he realized growing up meant growing apart outside of the principal’s office. Back in the day, they were an unstoppable, invincible, unconquerable dynamic duo. Everyone who knew one always knew the other because they came in a set of two, Stanford and Stanley. If life was a song, they played a duet. That sunny youthfulness went somewhere, somewhere far out of their grasp and beyond their comprehension. _Stanford_ was the one making the effort, on top of it all. That was saying a lot. 

“You wanna come, Ford?” Stan smiled at Rick imploringly, like Rick was the best person in the world but still only second to Ford.

Rick patted himself down. “Whoops, I left my wallet on Planet _Fuck You, Stanley Pines_.” 

“I can pay,” Stanford offered. 

At the mention of Stanford paying, Fiddleford suddenly had a craving for a triple scoop of whatever. “Mind if I tag along?” 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” Rick snapped. “S-Sh-Should I call up Squanchy and ask if he wants a squanch, while we’re at it?” But then Stan gave Rick that same smile, like Rick was the best person in the world but still only second to anyone else Stan likes. He had to relent to that smile. He just had to. “We’re taking your car, though. My ship’s a piece of shit, I got it 90% off from a dying planet. I-I could probably make something better from common household items in a garage.”

* * *

Rick claimed the shotgun seat like it remembered his butt, kicking it back and propping his legs up on the dashboard like it was his signature pose. He didn’t wear a seatbelt. Stanford was content in the backseat with Fiddleford. Bothered by Rick’s crude habits, but otherwise, content. If Stan was fine with it, there wasn’t much Ford could argue. Stanley called the shots in _El Diablo,_ the same red devil he’s had since senior year of high school. He worked countless hours overtime at the fifties-themed-seventies diner to save up for it. Their father sternly hinted approval at his work ethic because it built character. The boxing lessons built character, too. But nothing was ever enough. They never did figure out the real path to constructing the stoic hyper-masculine American Dream character their father envisioned. 

Rick was occupied with flipping through the radio stations. No longer than ten seconds were wasted on stations that he grumbled were “boring, boring, boring.” It was clear he had enough of Spanish pop songs and talk shows when he took out a screwdriver, the same one from last night, and started to force the radio out. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing, Sanchez?” It seemed that first names were forgotten when you messed with his baby. Once, Stan snapped at Ford for hitting a deer and called him “Pines” before realizing how ridiculous it was since they had the same last name. 

The front and plastic coverings popped off easily. It was the actual radio part of the radio, a heavy metal box of chips and wires jammed behind the facade of knobs and buttons, that he cared about. “Improving.” 

“Oh, _no_. Not in my car!” 

“Ugh, here we go again, monologue number twelve-thousand-million. I-I’ll start it off for you: ‘She’s my baby, Sanchez! She’s seen rough years, she’s been with me through thick and thin, she’s the only one I have the balls to commit to after my own flesh and blood kicked me out!’” 

Stanford wouldn’t mind if they crashed, at that point. The guilt hit him right in the guts. 

Stan let go of the steering wheel and reached over to rip the radio out of Rick’s hands. The car swerved before he stabilized the wheel with his knees. “Don’t use my using of my own background against you against me! If commitment was so good of a deal, Marilyn wouldn’t have divorced me six hours into our marriage!” 

Rick stubbornly pushed Stan’s face away and continued tinkering away at the radio one-handed. “W-W-Well that explains how willing you are t-to take back any ex that comes knocking at your doorstep!” They slowly drifted to the right lane. 

“Stan! The wheel, Stan!” Fiddleford shouted in panic. 

Stan ignored the pleas. “Is this about Jimmy again?” 

Rick conveniently swerved them out of the way of another car. “No, b-but while we’re talking about him, let me remind you that he’s an ass-licking, bike-fucking, oil-drinking, cursed _abusive_ motherfucking son of a cunt.” The other driver angrily honked at them. He took a pink crystal out of his lab coat and plugged it into the interior of the radio. 

“So he was _cursed…_ ” Ford said quietly to himself. 

“He wasn’t abusive; he loved me!” 

Stan deliberately drove through several trees and a few woodland creatures. Fiddleford screamed the entire time, holding onto the seat for dear life. He was debating whether or not it was worth jumping out of the car at the speed they were going at. 

“Spoken like an abuse victim!” Rick spat. 

“Just put the damn radio back!” 

“Fuck you, Stanley Pines! Fuck you and fuck Jimmy Snakes!” 

“ _Put the damn radio back!_ ” 

Fiddleford put his hands over his eyes when he saw a particularly huge, thick-trunked tree coming right towards them. “For Pete’s sake, put the radio back!” he yelled. 

As soon as the last screw was properly screwed in place, Rick jammed the radio and all of its components back to their original places and turned it on. All repressed rage was instantly quelled. The first station it tuned into was a heavy metal opera station where every lyric ended with the word _bulloort._ “Ta-da! Say hello to your new interdimensional radio!” He flipped to other stations: a talk show where the host masturbated throughout the entire interview, an indie swing music station with frog croaks for words, a station solely meant for product placements occasionally interrupted by plot development from the characters of a drama… “Y-You know, infinite universes, infinite possibilities, blah blah blah.” 

“ _You’d have to be extremely dumbus to_ not _have a plumbus!_ ” a smooth woman’s voice chimed. 

Stan found his way back onto a road and slowed to appease the speed limit. He found himself chuckling at the unconventional rhyme. “... Okay, I’ll admit your dumb nerdy thing is a _little_ cool. You win this round.” 

Rick smirked victoriously and returned to his usual pose, feet on the dashboard, with one arm hanging out of the window. “And that’s the _waaaaay_ the news goes.” 

* * *

Stanford would have liked to ask about how the hell interdimensional radio was even possible (there was no way a mere car antenna could detect frequencies out of the state, much less out of the dimension), but Rick was occupied with telling Stanley the complete beginner’s guide to brain waves, Sanchez edition. Someone’s wave is like their signature, to put it simply, maybe also like a scent to follow, since retinas are more commonly used for identification. He kept going on and on about how much he wanted to slice open Stan’s brain with a scalpel just to see what was inside. There are no pain receptors in the brain, he promised. Stan could even be awake during the surgery if that was more comforting. 

_Rick has a weird way of expressing his love_ , was all Stanford could think of. It was marked by grotesque fascination, deeper than skin and bloodier than a live beating heart. The man was utterly invested in, completely enamored by Stanley. Ford had to confess; he was envious of Rick for understanding Stan better than him. Rick and Stan spoke in secret ciphers wrapped with layers of insanity and garnished with jewels of insincerity. Stanley refused to accept conventional love of any way, shape, or form. (Compliments were dodged like bullets. Kisses were invitations to sex. Don’t even think about telling him those cursed three words that starts with _I_ and end with _you_.) But as it turns out, Stanley just had a weird way of accepting love. It didn’t have to be explained why Rick still got a triple scoop of Stanley’s beloved toffee peanut flavor despite their disputes earlier. 

Meanwhile, Fiddleford had a pink monstrosity jammed with rainbow balls of, what, gum? Did he seriously choose double bubble bubblegum? “I don’t mean to be insensitive or offensive, but that’s _literally_ the gayest flavor you could have gotten.” 

Fiddleford gave him the most deadpan expression Ford has ever seen, colder than ice cream and certainly less sweeter. “Maybe it’s because my wife left me.” 

For the first time, Rick noticed the golden band on Fiddleford’s left ring finger. “Yikes. Took the kid?” 

“Yup.” 

“ _Yoooooo_ , same here!” Rick offered a high-five, which Fiddleford weakly accepted. He playfully punched Fiddleford in the shoulder. “ _Women_ , a-am I right?” 

Stanley nodded in complete agreement. “You know, my ex-wife still misses me…” 

“Stanley, no,” Stanford scolded. “Stop.” 

“... _but her aim is getting better!_ ” 

Rick was the only one with enough good humor to laugh at the joke. Fiddleford was already triggered into a pre-midlife crisis. Stanford groaned. 

“Y-Y-You know, i-it’s funny because my ex-wife _did_ try to murder me!” Rick explained. “I-It wasn’t really her, but it was real enough to be her.” He handed his ice cream cone to Stan for a moment while he took a long sip of his flask. He didn’t stop until the thing was empty. 

Stanford’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me… You’ve encountered a shapeshifter, too?” 

“O-O-Of, of course I have, you unwed virgin vanilla dumbass!” Apparently, their sex lives were based on the chosen ice cream flavors, now. Rick let his flask slip out of his hands to clang on the table before pulling out an identical one from his lab coat. (Oh, God, he carried multiple flasks on him. Stanford doesn’t blame him.) “Y-Y-You think weird shit revolves around this boring town? I-I’ve got a box of alien vibrators in my car!” 

Stanford didn’t have to know that last part. “Um, no, I don’t.” In contrast, his entire life revolved around the weirdness of Gravity Falls. It was his life’s work. His entire field of study could be made obsolete right at that moment by the man in front of him, licking an ice cream cone out of his own twin brother’s hand. It reminded him of when he realized the true nature of quantum mechanics: futility. By the time one solved the impossible equations to find an electron’s orbit, it would have already become insignificant within the first few seconds of solving it. Stanford wasn’t arrogant enough to put his own ego over his curiosity, though. Science was more wrong answers than right, more mysteries than fact. “Do _you_ know the origin of Gravity Falls’ weird properties?” 

Rick took another long sip from his new flask while he pondered the question. He looked Ford straight in the eyes before stating his laconic conclusion. “Nitrogen monoxide.” 

“ _Nitrogen monoxide?_ ” Ford contemplated the molecule. It was an important biological regulator, but the origin of weirdness? His brain couldn’t make sense of it. 

Stan shoved Rick’s ice cream cone in his face. “That was _terrible_ , you fucking nerd. And hold your own damn ice cream.” 

Fiddleford shook his head in disappointment at Stanford. 12 PhDs gone to waste. “I’d like to say that I hate all of you.” 

Stanford scratched his head, still in deep thought. “Cellular signal molecule... Gaseous... Radical gas… Nitrogen monoxide, nitrogen oxide, nitric oxide… NO— _wait a second_.” 

“Th-That’s right, Harvard, I don’t know shit about Gravity Falls,” Rick confessed. He wiped his face with a napkin, then took back his ice cream cone. “Your ambitions are totally protected. In fact, I haven’t seen anything weird since I stopped here.” 

“No way, I’ve _gotta_ give you a tour,” Stan urged. “It’ll be unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.” 

Rick threw an arm around Stanley’s shoulders. “Hah, sh-shouldn’t that be _my_ line? Your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

“It’s not. You don’t even know my real birthday,” Stan scoffed. He was glowing with pride. They’ve known each other for years, but Stan was still sharp enough to hide a few secrets, no matter how mundane they were. Nobody knows Stanley Pines better than Stanley Pines himself. They celebrated Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday more often than any of Stan’s identities’ birthdays. The birthday of the name he was sticking with never seemed to come around before they parted ways. 

(Stanford and Fiddleford stayed quiet.) 

“What? N-No way, you’re a Gemini, right?” 

“Just because I’m a twin, huh?” 

(Fiddleford assumed that about Stanford, too, before he knew Ford’s birthday. No reason, other than it has always felt like Ford needed another half before he could be complete.)

“Th-This is gonna sound like some single mother on a blind date bullshit, but you’ve got a fuckload of perspective under your blurry eyes.” 

“My eyes are fine.” To prove his point, Stan knocked over the glass of water he was reaching for. “... Someone moved that.

“But you’re a Gemini.” 

“I’m a _Leo_ , smart guy. August 4th, the day Anne Frank was discovered in the secret annex.” 

“Th-That was Hal Forrester’s birthday, dipshit. Age 38. You can’t be 38, though, you were just a _baby_ when we first met.” 

Stan laughed it off. “Kidding,” he assured everyone. “Aries, April 1st. My life’s a joke!” 

“Steve Pinington, age 32.” 

“Just testing ya. Scorpio, October 31st, ‘cause my life’s a real horrorshow.” 

“S-Shit, did all of your identities have a gimmicky meaning attached to their birthdays? That’s kinda cute, _Andrew ‘8-ball’ Alcatraz.’_ Are we playing some kind of memory game or do you not know your own damn birthday?” 

“It’s April 3rd,” Stan said resolutely.

“I-I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel for this one, babe…” Rick idly watched Stan bite into his ice cream, occasionally crunching on a piece of toffee peanut. Not that he didn’t mind a bit of teeth every now and then, but Rick wondered how he ever let Stan give him a blowjob. He could never fully trust anyone who bit into their ice cream. Stan argued that it was more efficient to bite than lick, since licking gives the ice cream more time to melt, but, see, more time with the treat means more time to savor it. “I-I-I, uh, remember that you were s-supposedly turning the big three-zero two years ago, which means you would be supposedly 32 right now… The year’s 1982, so the birth year would be 1950. April 3rd in 1950 was a… Monday? Fuck, I’m going with Monday because the first Monday of April was when Cain was born and his brother Abel slain. Y-You were Abel Oaksworth, right?” 

“ _Fuck my life_.” Stan finally gave in. “When is our birthday, Sixer?”

If there was one convenient thing about having a twin, it was that you’d always have someone to remember your birthday. But Stanford didn’t have that. Neither of them had that for ten long winters. 

“May 21st… First day of spring.” Frankly, Stanford was at a crossroad in being more impressed by Rick’s memory or the amount of effort Stan puts into his other identities. 

“H-Holy _shit_ , Stanley Pines!” Rick exclaimed. “I-I-I-It was your _birthday_ when we met?” 

Stan rubbed his right temple. The downside to biting ice cream was that his teeth got sensitive after a while. “Geez, I don’t remember when we met. Is there an anniversary I’ve been forgetting to celebrate all these years?” 

“How the fuck do you _not_ remember, Stanley Pines? Y-You had a panic attack on your apartment balcony, Stanley! You wanted to jump but you had crippling acrophobia! I even tossed you a gun to shut you up, Stanley, don’t you remember?”

He did. Stanley remembered everything in full black-and-white. He had to crawl out of a window to get to that cramped balcony with thick cement rails. He had his eyes clamped shut while he hoisted himself up to sit on top of it, legs anxiously swinging back and forth. It was supposed to happen quickly—a jump and a fall and a death—but he convinced himself to take one last look at the world before it was gone. In his mind’s eye, it was supposed to be beautiful. He would see the bright cars vrooming below on the busy street, lit by golden brightness from the light poles. He was supposed to feel so small and insignificant compared to the infinite cosmos that his problems disappeared, too, as he would, and be oversensitive to the chill breezing past him, whispering that it was all right now. He imagined euphoria flooding into his bloodstream while he noticed all the details he took for granted previously, the shadows underneath the clouds and the rough texture of the cement and the background buzz of happy pedestrians below. 

It didn’t come. When he opened his eyes, his heart was racing out of anxiety because all he could think of was how high he was and how gray the city was at that moment and how _high_ he was. He thought he was going to die just sitting there where it was so _high._ The memory, even now, filled him with terror that brought him back to smog-filled air and trembling fear. 

“Why am I supposed to remember this, again?” Stan asked. 

“B-Because it was your _birthday_ , Stanley!” Rick insisted. “I’ve—I-I’ve gotta top that! D-D-Do you know how hard it’ll be to top _that_ , Stanley? Do you, Stanley, do you?” 

“Very?”

“ _Yes_ , Stanley! Very hard! Th-Th-There aren’t that many things better than suicide, Stanley!” Rick confirmed excitedly. He gestured towards the ceiling melodramatically. “W-We’ll go farther than the heavens, Stanley! You and I, the two of us, _Rick and Stanley!_ Way up, lightyears away, into the cosmos! I-I-I’ll—I-I’ll even teach you how to fly the ship, Stanley! That’ll be s-so— _uuurp_ —so convenient to my work!” 

“U-Up? Up _there?_ ” 

“Higher than anything you’ve ever seen before, Stanley! Higher than that crappy apartment building, for sure!” 

“Um, actually...” Stanford interjected, “... my brother and I were going to celebrate our birthday together. On Earth.” 

Stanley laughed nervously. “Hahaha, yeah, Ford and I will be together! On Earth! I really _love_ spending time on Earth, Rick. The ground is so… fresh.” 

“ _Fresh?_ ” Rick echoed skeptically. 

“Fresher than the vegetables at the grocery store.” 

Rick just stopped and stared at him for the longest minute, fully concentrated on the conundrum that was Stanley Pines. He fancied himself a philosopher some nights, but no amount of literature could help him unravel the meaning of the situational irony. Stanley Pines was never ironic on accident and Rick couldn’t recall any Shakespearean tragedy more ironic than Stanley Pines celebrating the anniversary of his first suicide attempt with the man that caused it. Rather, it was planned. Meaning, everything else had to mean something, too. 

“We’ll top it,” Stanley promised. “You, Ford, Fidds, and me. It’ll be _killer_.” 

Rick bet it would be. 


End file.
